The way he says it—like he's taking credit for her choices—makes my skin crawl. But I keep my expression bright and interested.
"I bet you know all the insider spots," I continue, leaning forward slightly. "The places they don't put in the tourist guides."
This is it. This is where my extensive research into "Howto Flirt with Rich Men"—thank you, WikiHow—is supposed to kick in. Light touch on the arm. Laugh at his jokes. Make eye contact. Project confident sexuality.
Blake's eyes definitely drop to my cleavage.
Okay. That part's working.
So I push my boobies out some more. Desperation is apparently very effective.
"Well, well…" he says, his voice dropping into what I assume is his seductive register, "there are a few places that require... special access."
He leans closer, and I catch a whiff of expensive cologne mixed with whiskey. His hand lands on my knee—casual, but definitely possessive.
My brain starts screaming Abort-Abort-Abort, but I force myself to stay in character. This is what I came here to do. This is why Barbie is paying me fifty thousand dollars.
"Special access sounds intriguing,"The words come out breathier than intended.
Holy cow!Did I just successfully deliver a flirty line? Without tripping over my own tongue?
Blake's smile widens. His thumb traces a small circle on my knee, and I fight the urge to knee him in the groin.
"There's a private beach on the north side of the resort," he says. "Very secluded. Very... intimate. The kind of place where a man can show a woman exactly how beautiful she is without any interruptions."
His fingers catch a section of my glossy new brunette hair, giving it a light, proprietary tug—like he's testing for compliance.
“I could show you tomorrow afternoon, if you're interested.”
Sothisis why the bridesmaids insisted on the hair-color overhaul. Five hours with their Glam Squad—extensions, spray tan, lash scaffolding—transforming my polite little blonde into a glossy brunette alter ego. And suddenly I’m catnip for men who can’t keep vows or zippers closed.
Here it is. The opening I need. The chance to get him alone, away from witnesses, where I can—
Wait.
This is working.
This is actually working.
Blake Hartwell—billionaire, serialcheater, generic rich guy—is hitting on me. Me. Jane Cooper from Boston. Jane Cooper who owns three nice dresses and considers Olive Garden a splurge.
My internal rom-com manual is working. He's leaning in. His eyes have that predatory gleam that means he's interested. He's suggesting private locations.
Sweet mercy, I'm accidentally good at this.
Oh
Oh no.
Now Ihave tolevel up.
Improvise. Improvise!
My throat goes dry. My hands start to sweat. Every instinct I have is screaming that I'm in way over my head, that I don't know how to play this game, that any second now he's going to realize I'm a fraud and—
"Actually," a familiar deep voice cuts through my spiral, "I think the north beach is off-limits to guests this week. Construction."
West Prescott appears beside our lounge chairs like he materialized out of thin air. He's changed since the pool earlier—now wearing khakis and a white button-down that emphasizes every inch of his ridiculous shoulders.
